s for the miserable life
they bestowed upon me--this being was a woman--a woman, alas! for our
mutual woe! She was as abundant in personal attractions as she was rich
in mental beauty. She loved, aye! she devotedly loved the unhappy
Bermudo, the wretched outcast, from whom every one else recoiled. She
loved him, and she found in that dark form, in that being so degraded
and despised, a heart capable of feeling and estimating a genuine
passion. Yes, in this desolate wilderness of my heart, not all was then
barren, and the kindly feelings sowed by her hand took root and budded
forth; I fostered them, and they flourished as vigorously as if they had
been cast in a more generous mould. I loved her! Oh, Anselma! Five years
have passed since that dreadful moment, but yet the bloody scene is
glowing, burning in my memory. I see thy mangled form, thy beauteous
limbs broken, and thy long dishevelled hair clotted with gore. Anselma!
Anselma! I did not follow thee to thy untimely grave, for I had to plan
and accomplish the deed of vengeance.--I cannot weep: the sad fountains
of these eyes are long since dry, but my scorched heart still weeps with
tears of blood, when the scenes of thy youth, thy love, and thy horrid
fate crowd upon my agonized recollection."

The renegade could not proceed; his agitation became terrible, and all
the occurrences of his past life were busy in distorting those features
and adding to their natural ferocity. Caneri looked aghast, for his
frivolous soul could not easily comprehend the nature of an attachment
so fervent, so deeply rooted, as to produce the violent effects which he
now witnessed. But his wonder increased as he perceived that gust of
uncontroulable passion gradually subside and give place to a kinder
emotion than he thought congenial to the being that stood before him.
The renegade was again calm. A tear stood trembling in his eye, and
that pitying drop spoke of affections long subdued, but not entirely
extinct in the breast of him who had but few tears to bestow. Soon,
however, his glassy eyes were fixed, and as Bermudo raised mechanically
his long sinewy fingers to his burning forehead, his countenance became
the index of a mind engaged in scenes far away. It was a deep though
momentary abstraction, for as Caneri gazed in amazement, the renegade
awoke from his trance, and became aware of the notice which his emotion
had excited. He felt ashamed that a token of weakness should have
betray